


a verb in perfect view

by crownsandbirds



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball, Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballroom Dancing, Dancing, Established Relationship, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds
Summary: "'Hanamiya-kun,' Imayoshi says at last, without even turning his gaze.'Senpai,' Hanamiya purrs, and moves until he's facing Imayoshi directly, and his smirk grows wider, and he bows theatrically, hair flowing in front of his face, one hand over his heart and the other extended towards Imayoshi. 'Would my weapon be so kind as to grant his meister a dance?'"It is said that dancing together improves soul resonance.Alternatively, Hanamiya is bored during the annual festivities, and Imayoshi is willing to indulge.
Relationships: Hanamiya Makoto/Imayoshi Shouichi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	a verb in perfect view

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tastewithouttalent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/gifts).



The annual ball thrown by Lord Death is a tradition at the DWMA at this point, something most of the students, be they meisters or weapons, look forward to with all the excitement that youth and its emotional shifts can give them. People buy special clothing for the event, and get themselves ready, and there is talk among classmates of who is going to dance with whom - and perhaps it is precisely because it's something that brings so much joy to everyone else that Hanamiya has a particular distaste for it. 

It might be just his contrary nature; it might be that he would much rather be off somewhere, fighting, soul shivering with the resonance of his weapon's alongside his own, the nature of battle and victory that he appreciates an enormous deal and that flourishes the most when he's running around Death City looking for Kishin eggs. It might be that he is everything but sociable, and he has very little care or knowledge concerning how to interact with his fellow classmates without bullying them, without verbally or physically injuring them. Be what it may, the very idea of a ball makes his teeth grit against each other and his shoulders tense up under his shirt - but everyone is going, and Imayoshi said, "I'll meet you there," the day before, with the casual ease he puts into his words, knowing Hanamiya will listen and will pay attention and follow whichever subtle instructions are given to him. 

At night, Hanamiya's mind went as far as to imagine exciting scenarios - the two of them had always been more than adept at breaking social laws in order to have fun of their own, and Imayoshi always had something planned in his mind, was always coming up with increasingly effective ways of getting under Hanamiya’s skin and slashing straight to his core - and when the time arrived for him to get ready for the ball, he was almost looking forward to it. Imayoshi had left before him, perfectly dressed in a white button-up shirt and dark trousers, with no more words other than a casual, "See you later, Makoto," thrown over his shoulder; and when Hanamiya was locking the door to their apartment and putting the keys inside the pocket of his much less formal leather jacket, his sideways smirk glinted with the possibilities. 

Now he's slouched back against a corner of the expansive ballroom, holding an empty glass with a grip that turns more vicious with every passing minute, and he's so _bored_ he thinks he might die. 

Imayoshi's decision to arrive earlier was perfectly calculated, Hanamiya sees now; without the shadow of his antisocial, crude meister at his side, he smoothed his way into the many circles of conversation around the room to perform his flawless act of perfect normalcy. He has been exchanging small talk with various people for the past 40 minutes, and he looks so at ease between them that even the experience and the intimate knowledge of Hanamiya's glare at his weapon are fooled for a fraction of a second. Every now and then, Imayoshi moves and smiles and talks in such a _normal_ manner that even Hanamiya is tricked by it, and then he comes back to himself and to his comprehension of the deep, terrifying nature that lies underneath Imayoshi's act, and he grits his teeth more, angry at himself for faltering sometimes even after all the years they've spent together, angry at Imayoshi for not paying attention to him, angry for coming to the ball in the first place. 

For a while, his silent rage is enough to keep his mania at bay; he glares at the people dancing in front of him, scoffs at Imayoshi's ease as he talks to everyone in the room _except_ for Hanamiya, and even considers going home and doing something more productive with his time, although nothing comes to mind, just to be contrary. But the idea of leaving his weapon behind, reacting to his mask as if he's nothing more than an ordinary person amidst ordinary people, as if Hanamiya doesn't know exactly how dark and vicious his soul is, pisses him off even more, and so, he stays, a hand curled to a fist in the pocket of his leather jacket, watching Imayoshi laugh about something or other in the midst of a social circle comprised by people Hanamiya doesn't even remember ever seeing in his entire time at the DWMA. 

It's _infuriating_. 

At some point, in his quiet anger, a boy in his field of vision stutters himself into asking another for a dance, and an idea comes to Hanamiya. It's enough to make the corners of his lips lift up in a smirk, and he straightens from his slouch, puts his empty glass down on the first flat surface he finds, and strides confidently towards Imayoshi. On his way there, he sticks out a foot discreetly, hooks it around one of the dancers' ankle and they fall disastrously to the floor, but Hanamiya continues walking forward, satisfaction trickling down his spine. 

There's nothing outwardly visible in the form of a reaction from Imayoshi at Hanamiya's approach, but their souls move closer together, almost, as if there is a taut string with each end tied at their rib cages, pulling them towards each other. 

"Hanamiya-kun," Imayoshi says at last, without even turning his gaze, when Hanamiya is close enough. 

"Senpai," Hanamiya purrs, and moves until he's facing Imayoshi directly, and his smirk grows wider, and he bows theatrically, hair flowing in front of his face, one hand over his heart and the other extended towards Imayoshi. "Would my weapon be so kind as to grant his meister a dance?" 

Imayoshi's mouth curls in amusement, and he allows silence to stretch between them for a moment almost too long to be uncanny before taking the offered hand with all the regal grace of a king conceding to the plea of a subject. "But of course, Hanamiya-kun. It would be my pleasure."

They do not walk to the center of the room - they take a space for themselves in one of the shadowed corners. Imayoshi's smile is glinting like the very shape of his lips is the edge of the poisonous dagger he can turn himself into, and before Hanamiya can do anything, can even stop his forward movement, Imayoshi is already gripping his waist tight, tilting him into stepping back so forcefully that Hanamiya is forced to wrap his arms around Imayoshi's shoulders so he won't fall to the floor. 

"Were you jealous?" Imayoshi inquires as he tightens his hold on Hanamiya, as he steps forward once to tilt Hanamiya even more off his balance, enough that Hanamiya has to lean back entirely on Imayoshi's grip, enough that he has no choice but to follow his weapon's steps. "Did you want _attention_?"

Hanamiya scoffs, feigning indifference, which is as effective as his fruitless attempts to keep himself upright in order to gain back some equilibrium. "I wasn't. Why would I be jealous? If _you_ want to spend your entire evening talking to random people about stupid school gossip, you should've at least told me so I would have fucking stayed at home and done something _better_ with my time -" 

And then Imayoshi spins him around, and pulls him back strongly enough to force the air out of Hanamiya's lungs, one hand on his hip and the other splayed on the small of his back, under the black t-shirt he's wearing underneath his leather jacket. "It's fine now, Makoto," Imayoshi whispers in his ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down Hanamiya's spine. "You have my attention."

As they are, Imayoshi is setting the pace, _he_ is swaying the two of them to the sound of the music, and Hanamiya's efforts are all focused on keeping up, on stepping alongside Imayoshi. It's almost a waltz, they're dancing to an intense piece of classical music more than suited for a party that has begun to reach its finishing stages, and Imayoshi is as graceful and smooth in this as he is in everything else. His feet don't falter, his grip doesn't loosen for a single second, and he spins Hanamiya around and keeps him so close that their breaths are melting together, their hips pressed against each other. It's intimate, and cutting, and it is like their souls are burning bright inside their hearts, melding together into one single form of emotion, something so ardent it can barely be restrained by their physical bodies. Hanamiya _wants_ , he _needs_ , he needs his weapon close and _closer_ still, and he strains his neck, fists his fingers on Imayoshi's hair so they can kiss, so he can feel the perfect intimacy and the familiar taste of Imayoshi's mouth - but Imayoshi pushes him back, away, and for a moment the only thing keeping them together is their hands clasping each other; and then he pulls Hanamiya back flush against him, and steps around, and sways them, and Hanamiya falters, and then there's a thigh pressing between his own, and he's tilted back again, Imayoshi's arm around him the one thing keeping him from collapsing to the floor. It's overwhelming, a smooth river carrying him alongside its trail, a series of movements that have left him hanging and breathless, and almost terrified, and Hanamiya thinks he can see the silver glint of the dagger in the way Imayoshi's eyes are focused on his own. 

He's dizzy, he's hazy, and the thigh presses up, and he can feel himself go hard inside his pants, can hear his own labored breath as he all but pants against Imayoshi's perfectly pressed collar; it's almost too much, their souls reaching for each other and entwining together in a way he never expected to feel outside of a battlefield, and he gasps out, "Senpai -" and Imayoshi laughs quietly, digs his nails on Hanamiya's skin cruelly enough to draw small specks of blood, and whispers, "You have my attention, Makoto."

The music picks up in haste, and Imayoshi dances with even more certainty than before. They are moving around the room, curving towards the shadows and stepping towards the yellow lights on the ceiling, and Hanamiya's body is moving with perfect synchrony to Imayoshi, as if he's been doing this all his life, as if they are speaking with the way they touch; at moments, it feels like the entire world is pausing a breath to watch them, and, at others, it feels like they're back in their apartment, in their bedroom, in their bed, just the two of them and no one else, just Hanamiya and Imayoshi and the dripping warm blood from a knife or the lingering, delicious agony of a burn. Imayoshi, in this as much as in everything else, takes the lead with such inherent, surgical grace, as if the dagger that makes him into a weapon is slashing through the fabric of reality around them, and Hanamiya is helpless, torn apart in front of such absolute control. 

Imayoshi moves, and spins, and touches, his hands forever searching and painful, and Hanamiya _arches_ into it, and Imayoshi smiles, "My meister," and presses the bare, cutting blade of his smirk against Hanamiya's mouth, and their united souls flare with resonance. 


End file.
